Chapter 4: Littles at the Shrink

December, 2009.

"All I'm saying is," said a little girl, as she entered the waiting room. Her dark blond, shoulder length waves bouncing with life as she talked. "It would be really easy to fool people into believing a holiday like Clown-Worshipping day if they didn't even know existed, and you tweeted it out! Nobody fact checks anything, even with the internet in their back pocket!"

"Right you are, Martha," said the bearded African American gentleman who had escorted her back to her parents. He had one hand on the door to the hallway, and put the other behind his back as he gave her a nod. "Thanks for your time."

Mrs. Little folded up a copy of Good Housekeeping and uncrossed her legs as her daughter approached. "How did it go?"

"Not good," Martha told her, throwing herself on the empty seat, left of her mother and right of George. "Dr. Phelps really likes to make analogies about himself as a kid." She leaned in close and whispered into her mother's ear. "He seems to be regressing into his childhood, but don't tell him that I told you."

Mrs. Little exchanged uncertain looks with her husband, seated on her right. but ultimately, they shrugged at each other.

The tweed-jacket-wearing doctor looked over his papers, scratching his bushy, pepper bearded chin and looked to the remaining patients. "Well, that's George and Martha finished. Let's see… Stuart? You're next."

Martha looked over at the mouse looking at the latest issue of Sports Illustrated on the glass table. "Good luck," she whispered to him with a smile. "Between the two of us, one of us can make a breakthrough with him."

"I'll, uh, do my best," Stuart said as he nodded slowly, He knew better than to burst his sister's bubble than try and point out who was the patient, and who was the doctor.

The Littles had only been visiting with Dr. Phelps for a year. Previously, Martha was too young for the office's age minimum—which was interesting, since her particular brand of uniqueness made her the first Little thought to actually benefit from talking to a counselor of some sort.

When Martha's school didn't take up her parents' suggestion of in school counseling, and not wanting to single her out, the Littles enrolled all three of their children into public therapy. And it didn't take long for George and Stuart to figure this out.

Though of course, they were raised too polite to tell her the truth. Even George, who the more he aged, was more impatient with little white lies that made the world look better.

Dr. Phelps led his tiniest, and yet one of his oldest, patients forward and out of the lobby. From there, he led Stuart down the hall, across a ruby colored carpet, overlapping diamond ruby and orange carpet, and held open the door for him as he helped himself onto the carpet.

The office was spacious. Located on the tallest floor of a highrise, looking over the skyline, with a corner of Central Park's tallest trees in the distance. Although the floor-to-ceiling window view could be just as lovely in the winter as it was in warmer months, the gray sludge created by a mixture of snow and freezing rain could only be appreciated from such a clean and warm room.

The stoutly gentleman closed the door. "It's been a good two months since we last checked in."

Stuart shrugged, and pulled himself onto the couch with ease. "Shifts at work were getting in the way."

Among their many differences, Stuart never quite flopped backwards onto the couch like his brother had just done during his session a while ago. He would sit up straight with his back erect. At the orphanage, it was taught that slouching wasn't polite.

Even still, Dr. Phelps noticed something unusual right away. Stuart climbed onto the middle of the first cushion and stayed on the very edge, folding his legs, and twiddling his thumbs. His normal, relaxed aura was gone, and he looked like a firecracker about ready to go off.

Dr. Phelps slowly sank into his chair opposite him. "So, I've heard you've had quite an exciting few weeks."

Stuart rolled his left pinkie in between the fingers on his other hand, shifting his gaze from the doctor, to the carpet. "Mom already told you about it?"

The psychologist put on a playful look. "Your folks already gave me the gist. Honor roll student, star studded athlete, a dozen scholarships…Working the phones at the local store—a managerial job normally handed only to adults." The doctor nodded his head in approval, and checked off his notes. "If there was ever a man of small stature who showed the world there's nothing he can't do, it's you."

"Thanks."

Dr. Phelps leaned forward in his seat, studying the mouse more carefully. "And yet, you don't seem very.. happy."

"I am!" Stuart said, knowing he said it a little too aggressively as it was coming out. "Really. I mean, mom and dad are as proud as peaches."

"I'm not talking about them," the doctor told him, calmly. "I'm talking about you."

Just like what Snowbell said, Stuart realized, albeit reluctantly. He'd hate to think that cynical cat had correctly identified something wrong with him.

Dr. Phelps turned over a clean sheet in his legal pad. "You're speaking as if all this hard work is more for them than it is for yourself."

"What? No… " Stuart shook his head. But as he thought it over, he realized that wasn't entirely untrue. "Well, I mean. They took me in. They adopted me when nobody else would. At the end of the day, isn't it my job to please them?"

Dr. Phelps' tongue was in his cheek. "Mm, yes. And… no."

"Yes and no? What would be the alternative?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

Stuart blinked. The shrink was playing a game with him. "I don't know," he shrugged. "Go party all the time? Pick up a pack of cigarettes?"

At the mental image of someone Stuart's size fumbling with a cigarette, Dr. Phelps couldn't restrain a giggle. "I'm sorry." He tapped his pen against his paper. "But I feel like we're thinking a little too black and white here. Being a teenager—well, being a young adult, that is—isn't a game of who's got the cleanest nose. At the end of the day, you're the only one who knows what it's going to take to make yourself happy." He gestured outwardly. "I mean, conventionally, yes, people tend to live a happier life if you have a roof over your head, and you know where your next meal is coming from. Which is why society pushes us to go to school and duke it out over jobs. But that alone is not a guarantee of your happiness."

"It's just stability," Stuart said, his voice hollow.

"Yes. Anybody can do whatever they want once they have the funds to do so. If I wanted to shave my head and to paint my kneecaps the colors of the Taiwaneese flag, I could. I'm a grown man, and my family has food on the table—granted, my wife shakes her head at me." He looked at Stuart a little longer. It was hard to read a mouse's face on the couch from this distance, but Dr. Phelps had known Stuart long enough to pick up the subtle indications of his mood, from the location of his tail, to what his ears were doing. The same way the Littles had.

"I just… I don't like thinking about it," Stuart admitted quietly. "If I think too long about the college stuff, it starts to make me feel like I'm drowning."

"Drowning?" Dr. Phelps was impressed.

"In a box filled with water."

Now the doctor was concerned. He wasn't looking at his papers anymore. He gave Stuart his full attention. "That's poetic."

"No. It's really not. It's… literal."

"Whaddaya mean?"

Stuart swallowed hard, balling his fists together so hard, his claws dug into his palms.
In the past, he had made every effort to avoid burdening others with his problems when he could, especially if it got his adoptive family involved. He didn't mean to let go of this secret, but now that the doctor had pulled on the string, the ball of yarn was unraveling. "There's this nightmare that I keep having. I-I'm running down a hall—maybe a vent? It's narrow, maybe slightly taller than my head." He stood up momentarily and showed the doctor the height of the ceiling with his arm. "And I'm just running, and running… and then suddenly, I hit a wall. And I go to turn around, and the vent's no longer there. I'm just in this metal box. And I run around in circles. And it feels like the ceiling is getting higher and higher. And then suddenly, I hear gushing water. I don't know where it's coming from. But it's pushing me up to the ceiling. And I'm smacking the walls and smacking the ceiling, but it won't give. And I've got nothing to get out. Water fills up the box, and then, everything just goes black…"

"Uh-huh?"

"And then… that's it. I wake up. Time to go to school."

"Huh." Dr. Phelps took a few moments to process the details, and jot them down on his pad. "How often has this nightmare happened?"

"Maybe once a month, since last February."

"Since last February," the doctor repeated, for emphasis.

"Yeah. Sometimes twice." He grimaced as he remembered the chilling and confusing variation in the last dream, in which the box was a maze, and it's controller was someone he used to know. "The other details change, but that's always the same."

The doctor leaned forward in his chair. "That's something all right. And… you've said you're a good swimmer?"

"Well, never had any formal practice. Maybe it's instinct. Y'know. But I swam to the surface when I fell in a storm drain once," he said. "And there was the… well." He cut himself off. Going back that far into his childhood reminded him of the washing machine incident, which happened less than a month before alley cats chased him into the storm drain. Stuart was absolutely not going to bring that up. Eight years later, and Mom was still nervously picking through every piece of laundry before she shut the machine door. He didn't want the doctor to associate that with the repeating nightmare. "Other times."

Dr. Phelps drew little circles in the air with the butt of his pen as he spoke. "Do your parents know about this nightmare?"

"No! No, of course not. I-I don't want to worry them. Especially mom. She'll read into it too much."

The doctor chewed on his thoughts for a moment, staring at his note, before deciding to speak. "You know, Stuart, a person's dreams don't always necessarily mean anything. But sometimes they can be a great indicator of what's going on in the back of their head. Especially if they are reoccurring."

"So, what do you think this one means?"

"Not yet. But… I do know that you're a smart, kind, considerate young man..." As he spoke, he jotted down some notes on his pad with a heavy fist, as if to emphasize those particular words. "And you should know that you don't have to choose between honor and happiness. Your having come this far in life doesn't mean anything if you're not content with it. You can't let anyone tell you what it is you want out of this life. Whatever it is that you want, whatever makes you happy, body and soul, you have to just go for it. Even if the broken road is a longer, harder one then the conventional."

Stuart raised a brow. "Okay, so, what is the broken road?"

"I don't know." He pointed at the mouse with his pen, and a grin. "That's for you to figure out, kiddo."

"How do I do that?"

"It's not Freudian, Stuart. Think about what you really want from life. Don't think so much about what anyone might want from you, or might be impressed that you did, or can do. You might not know what it is now, but sooner or later, if you're honest with yourself, you'll know what to do to make yourself your own role model."

Stuart thought about this for a moment, and finally, let out a breath. He was afraid of how this meeting was going to go, once the cat was out of the bag. So he was surprised that he actually felt better, if only a teeny, tiny bit. Even if the advice seemed rather empty, the very least, he'd told someone. "Thanks, doc."

Dr. Phelps walked Stuart back to the lobby, careful to keep his eye on him—with all the kids running around, there was never certainty for the mouse's safety. When Stuart was safe on the coffee table, he shifted his eyes to the parents. "Uh, Mr. and Mrs. Little?" the doctor cupped his hands together, stopping them as they began putting on their jackets. "Mind of I have a quick pow-wow with you two before you head on out?"

The parents looked at each other, puzzled. "Well. Uh… certainly." Mrs. Little replied, before turning to her sons. "Uh, boys, watch Martha for a few minutes, would you?"

"Mm, yeah." George answered, scrolling through his phone with his earbuds playing Last Resort on full blast.

Stuart looked from his brother to his parents. "Sure thing, Mom," he said, ensuring at least one of them had paid attention to the request.

But as he watched his parents cross the room, he felt a little nervous. His ears sagged behind his head. Don't let him tell them I'm not okay.

Martha leaped down from her chair and kneeled by the coffee table, resting her arms against the glass. "Real quack, huh?" She drew circles on the cool glass with her finger. "I'm thinking autophobia—that's the fear of being alone." She whispered to Stuart. "Poor guy. Why else would he tell us all about his life? He just wants friends."

"Mmm," His tension momentarily deflated, Stuart stuck his hands in the pockets of his khakis and looked away with a grin. "Somehow I don't feel like he's that far gone."

Martha cupped her hands to her chin. "That's what they said about Manson."

A bewildered Mr. and Mrs. Little followed Dr. Phelps down the carpeted hallway.

After they slowly sank down into the couch, the doctor closed the door to his office once more. "Well, this is new," Frederick declared, wrinkling his nose and adjusting his seat.

"I'm sure you two have to hurry home and get dinner on the table, so I'll make this quick," he said as he made his way back over to his chair, across from the couch. "But I wanted to share with you some new concerns I'm having," he said as he took to his chair.

Mr. and Mrs. Little exchanged nervous looks. "Oh dear," Eleanor said, taking a deep breath. "I was worried about this."

Dr. Phelps raised a brow. "So, you're aware of what's going on?"

"Well, Martha's always been a little on the peculiar side," Frederick said.

"Between those ghost hunting shows, and those junior wiccan books…" Mrs. Little chimed in. She herself had bought Martha some of those books, in favor of their more wholesome pro-Earth theme, if nothing else. But lately she was beginning to question if fueling her interests had been a wise choice.

"We just always assumed it was better to let her march to the beat of her own drum. But if she's taking it too far—"

"Mr. Little, it's not Martha I'm worried about," Dr. Phelps broke in. "Granted, she's had a couple of peculiar interests…" He trailed off and slowly twisted in his seat, looking over the back of his chair. "I'm gonna wonder for the next few weeks if there's a really weeping woman sitting on the edge of my desk…" He packed away his paranoia and calmly turned back to the parents. "But… it's just imagination, really. Frankly, a girl who can read and converse as well as she can for her age is pretty well adjusted."

"Then… who are we worried about?" asked Mrs. Little.

"It's George and Stuart." He laced his fingers. "Are you aware of how the two are doing?"

Mr. and Mrs. Little only seemed to look more confused. In their anticipation for him to say something about Martha, neither of them had brought to mind concerns they may have had about the boys. "Uh…"

"Well, let's start with George. Now, the young man I talk with is very bright, but it doesn't exactly show up in his grades. Especially as of late."

"We've been getting on his case about bringing those grades up," the father explained. "We know he's been stuck in the C-average zone for a while now."

"Although I've wondered if tutoring could help," Eleanor put in.

"I really don't think it's a matter of not understanding the material. Based on what I've gathered from our past few sessions, George doesn't do half as well in school because he has no motivation to do so."

"Oh, god… " Eleanor winced. "Well, maybe this was a kick in the pants for us as well. Rest assured, I'm getting to the bottom of this. Even if I have to lock up that XBox."

"I'm not saying don't buckle down on him about getting better grades. But the thing is, I feel as though George's problem runs a little deeper than general laziness," the doctor explained, adjusting his seat in the chair. "But I've had enough teens in here to know the difference. Usually they're distracted from their schoolwork by one or two key things—movies, video games, as you might think. Too much Mary-Jane, and of course, sex—not-not that that one applies to him!" He said quickly to the horror-struck parents with a nervous chuckle. "But after our conversations the past few months, I don't get the sense that George only puts forth the bare minimum because he feels as though he's not expected to do more."

The parents turned to each other, lost. "Why would he think that?" asked Frederick.

The doctor clasped his hands together and spoke carefully. "Well… because of his brother. Which brings me to my next point: Have you noticed that Stuart's been experiencing an abnormally high amount of stress lately?"

Frederick opened his folded hands, palms upward. "Well, we know he's been concerned with picking the right college…"

"I don't blame him. It's hard to pick a college when you're not really sure what you want to do with your life." The doctor crossed his legs. "And it sounds as if the Career Aptitude test hasn't helped him much, either. But what's more interesting is, when I ask him what's driving him to get the honors, if not a specific job in mind. And his answer... is you."

"Us." Eleanor said, stunned.

"Stuart loves you two very much, and he's determined to make you proud. But without the structure of school and a set class schedule, there's nothing pushing him in any one direction. And it seems as if the fact that he can't seem to make a decision about any of this is his way of letting you two down."

"How could he let us down?" asked Mr. Little. "We only want him to be happy."

"You're not trying to say it has something to do with his being adopted, do you?" Mrs. Little asked worriedly. "Trying to make up for not... feeling good enough."

The parents looked at each other. And in their way, without sharing a word, they knew what the other was thinking. If anyone had failed, here, it was them.

"The adoption isn't necessarily the root of this inadequacy. I like to believe Stuart's just a hard worker by nature. But when it comes to siblings, especially with a significant enough age gap, is a self fulfilling prophecy," the doctor said. "One child—usually the oldest—takes on the brunt of the responsibility. Usually out performing the younger, while the younger sees no reason to compete. So they take a back seat. This is especially common in households these days while the one older sibling stays at home to go to college and contributes to the bills, while the other slightly younger child decides their household needs are already taken care of. In this case, I can't help but wonder if George is seeing Stuart snatch up all these awards and wonder 'why bother? I ain't never gonna outdo that.'"

"So what do you think we should do?" asked Frederick.

"For George, I recommend finding out what it is that that young man is truly passionate about. There has to be something he's said or done, not here, that might indicate his calling in life."

The Littles took a quiet moment to think. "To be honest, I'm not sure what that could be." Frederick spoke for his wife, but paused to see her reaction. The fact that he couldn't immediately name his son's biggest passion in life made them only feel worse.

When she shook her head, Frederick carried on. "At least, now. Model building was his hobby when he was younger. It was a thing I loved to do as a child, and it's what we used to do together, George and I. He clasped his hands together again, rubbing them slowly as he spoke. The topic unloading memories he didn't expect would weigh on him like this. He needed his Rubix cube.

"What happened to that?" asked the doctor.

"Well, then Stuart came along, and we would work on them together, all three of us. Eventually the boys started getting a little older, and I let them work on some projects together. But one day, I guess they got bored with it. Stuart had a girlfriend, and all that AP homework. George had soccer and, of course, his games." He shrugged. "I guess model building was just… in the past."

"I think it's time to find his new interest," the doctor said. "Or, rather, help him figure it out for himself."

"What about Stuart?" asked Mrs. Little, a little more aggressively than she meant to.

"Now, I don't have too many mice as patients, and quite honestly, there's not a lot that's known or understood about them." He took off his glasses, just for a moment, to rub the bridge of his nose. "How they differ from humans, I mean. That said, there's likely to be more in common."

"So what do we do?" asked Frederick, leaning forward in his chair. "How do we lighten the stress?"

"You have got to give him space, or he's going to explode. He's got excellent grades and he's got a trajectory for a great life. Whatever he wants to do, whether it's a joyride on a rocket or a trip down the road, you let him do it. Otherwise, he may resent you when he gets older."

"We do have that outing to the park tomorrow," Eleanor said, looking at her husband. "Last skating session of the season. I normally hate when Stuart skates with other families on the ice, but I suppose I could…" she took in a deep breath. "Back off."

"The most important thing to remember," the therapist emphasized, "Is that you two have raised three intelligent, passionate, kind hearted kids. And you ought to be proud of that. But while you still have time with George, pull him a little closer," he said while reeling his hands near his chest. "And let Stuart—" he pushed his arms out, like releasing a baby robin from his palms and letting it fly away. "—go." He drummed his finger on the edge of the seat, biting his lip. After a beat, he added: "And… mayyyyybe cut back on the amount of time Martha's watching the Sci-Fi channel. Just a bit."

A/N: So, zany little girls are harrrrrd to write for. I'm not sure why but I pictured kid-Martha being one, like some of her dialog just came so naturally. Maybe if only because it's funny to think of how the other Littles would deal with her being zany and odd, and saying things that make your eyebrows go up, lol. One of my best friends April writes little kids so well, I took a lot of inspiration from her.

This was one of the first sections of writing I did for this fanfic, because I was just so compelled by the idea of the Littles going to family therapy of some sort. Like they do come off with this hollywood-esque, 1950s nuclear family perfection at times, and in this fic, I wanted to slowly work away that image to flesh them out. One of the major giveaways being Martha herself, her hobbies and interests being quirky at best, concerning at worst.

Like a lot of this story I might go back and edit some of this chapter later, but here it is. If you think the weird little girl trope could be done better here, or have suggestions for how to make it more natural or funny, hit me up. Or whatever thoughts you've got about the story so far, I'd love to hear them. Otherwise, enjoy!